


Let the Weak be Strong, Let the Right be Wrong

by Tassledown



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban Fic, Death Eater fic, Gen, Minor Character Death, Rape is off-screen/discussed, Sane Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Suicide Attempts, Violence is also off-screen/discussed, discussion of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 08:18:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tassledown/pseuds/Tassledown
Summary: Sirius Black knows what to do to keep himself sane and alive in Azkaban: trying to take care of the other inmates during what time they have to leave their cells. Unfortunately the only people who will accept him doing it were all fighting on the other side of the war.





	Let the Weak be Strong, Let the Right be Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> This was written to explore both character relationships and what Azkaban really might be like if someone can escape after twelve years and be as (relatively) sane as Sirius and the others were. 
> 
> Title pulled from the lyrics of "Independence Day" by Martina McBride, for reasons of some kind of similarity in tone whether it makes sense or not to anyone else.

“What did Mulciber’s cousin say to make you let him fucking die, anyway?”

Sirius finished rewrapping Yaxley’s wrist and shrugged. “If you haven’t said it by now, Yaxley, you’ve never done it.” He gestured for the other hand and despite Yaxley’s display of irritation, he let Sirius take it.

“You drive all of us insane doing this. Is _that_ your plan, then?”

Sirius didn’t answer. He checked the cuts on that wrist as well and wrapped it again, satisfied Yaxley wasn’t getting an infection. With their magic suppressed by the crippling depression induced by the dementors, illnesses wizards rarely fell victim to were alarmingly common and harder to fight off once started. Not eating merely exacerbated the effects.

“As it is,” Sirius added belatedly, “You hardly _have_ to eat just because I show up in your cell with food when you skip a meal. That’s how Parkinson managed it. I’m not going to force it down your throat.”

Yaxley shrugged off that suggestion and ate faster, now that he had both hands. “How are you so sure I haven’t said it?”

“Do you remember when you first cut your wrists?” Sirius smiled crookedly at him. “Pretty sure you described every single rape or murder you’d committed you could _think_ of to try to make me let go in horror and stop trying to heal you then.”

“You’re a harder asshole than I imagined.” Yaxley looked like he was mentally cataloging that list again, to remember what crimes he must have repeated to him. Sirius didn’t envy him the task - he’d been able to go on for over an hour. “Why _didn’t_ you ever join up?”

Sirius watched him eat and shrugged. “I’m not sure I can explain that and make you believe me.”

“Try me.”

“I didn’t for the same reason I brought you food and healed your wrists.”

Yaxley just looked puzzled. “You’re not a healer. You were in combat like the rest of us. It’s not like violence disturbs you - can’t, not if you’re a Black.”

Sirius laughed, a joyless, bitter sound. “It’s not about the violence.”

“Then what _is_ it?”

“I told you you wouldn’t believe me.” Sirius shrugged and glanced away, unsure if he could put why into words himself. “I do it because it makes this place a little bit better.”

That got him another puzzled stare. “That can’t be it. Most of the shorter inmates need your help more than us. Lestrange’s almost as sane as you and he never bothers.”

“And Bella can’t get out of bed some days, I know. I didn’t say it made it _easier_ , Yaxley. I said _better_.” Sirius picked up Yaxley’s empty tray and got up. “Thanks, for eating. And talking. It’s good to see you doing a little better.”

What he didn’t say was that he was fairly certain Lestrange had _never_ cared about what happened to him or others, at least not in his adult life. Likely there was nothing more frightening for him in Azkaban than there had been in his free life during the war. If his voice was hoarse from screaming come morning, Sirius suspected he’d be screaming at the same nightmares outside as in.

The tray went back to the dining hall. Lestrange was there with his brother, talking quietly at one of the narrow, cramped tables used to try and fit as many of the inmates in the room as possible. Azkaban was a converted fortress, and it had never been meant to hold this many people at once. The war had overwhelmed the space. Until about a year ago, Sirius had been sharing a cell with his cousin, mostly to avoid sharing with anyone _else_.

Four years after the war, however, most of the minor sentences had ended and many sentenced to longer ones had died and he had a space to himself. He didn’t like having to think about her as both family _and_ the reason one of his friends was locked in a long-term ward of St. Mungo’s.

Sirius looked for a few of the ‘shorter inmates’ that he knew had been struggling to adjust to the Dementors. He found the first easily enough: a young woman, Anastasia Steinsbrogh. Her crime had been failing to renew permission to stay in England on time and she was in for six months. She was picking at her meal and, fortunately, had no idea who Sirius was or what he had been incarcerated for. Being from Poland behind the Iron Curtain, the only wars she cared about were Grindelwald and the Cold War. ‘Voldemort’ was a name she didn’t even know.

The second was Gavin Greengrass: nineteen years old and caught selling illegal potions, sentenced to three years. Sirius hadn’t asked what kind of potions they were; he didn’t care. He’d found Gavin crying in his cell the first day and sat with him until he calmed down enough to realize he was allowed to leave it. The Greengrass family wasn’t a prestigious one, but they were well-known and fairly well-off. Bella knew him, but Sirius couldn’t remember what the connection was. Given what Azkaban was like, he cared precisely because he’d forgotten.

The third and fourth were sitting together. Sirius had unintentionally introduced them to each other by terrifying them both once they snapped out of the initial shock of arriving in Azkaban last year. He hadn’t gotten surnames out of them before they stopped talking to him, and neither looked familiar. One had given her name as Nancy, in eighteen months for a business license violation; the other he’d since learned was called Grace.

They were both shooting him anxious looks across the room, as they did whenever they noticed him. He turned away to get himself more tea to avoid alarming them more. Those two were obviously English, and had definitely not been sympathizers during the war. He was suspicious Grace might be muggleborn or raised: she’d been sentenced to five years for forbidden enchantments on her house, an uncommon thing to actually be _sent_ to Azkaban for. Most people who were skilled or learned enough to do spells worthy of a sentence were rich enough to pay off the government to _let_ them.

“Hey! Lestrange, Black!” Travers came rushing into the room, a letter clutched in one hand. “Get over here, Black! I need to ask you something!”

Sirius picked up his tea reluctantly and went to join him. Rookwood and Dolohov came over as well, as anyone of his cousin’s acquaintance did when there was news. Lestrange made room for him to sit beside him, where Bellatrix would when she was well. It was a useful reminder for everyone involved, both because Dolohov hated him and because Sirius despised him - among others - back. While he could go around the table and name who he knew among all of their victims, Dolohov was unique. Dolohov had specifically tried to kill _him._

Every time he sat near Dolohov, Sirius reminded himself that nervekillers were easy wandless spells, and largely undetectable ways to kill someone and make it look inexplicable. He restrained himself, because Dolohov was just as proficient with them as he was. It was very possible Dolohov could still cast one here in Azkaban, just like he could.

“My brother’s finally got an engagement, to one of the daughters of the Safiq family.” Travers announced. “Black, your family knows them right?”

Sirius blinked twice. Many of the families of the arrested Death Eaters had been struggling to make engagements since the end of the war. A Travers marrying a Safiq was a surprise: the Safiq family had been a swing vote in the Wizengamot during the war, like the Blacks. “Narcissa’s first engagement was to one of their sons, yeah. What are you wondering?”

“You know they’re Muslims. He wrote that they’d found a cousin with a daughter they wanted to marry out. I don’t know anything about them at all, what does that _mean_? It looks like it was a huge hassle, but their family owed us a favour and my mother called it in."

“It means they must have had a daughter who wanted to be Christian and this is an excuse not to politely disown her for it. Their daughters normally require a husband to convert, rather than the other way around; it's why we never considered them for Reggie. We only ever married daughters to their family, not sons." Their families were so much the same on religious norms, he didn’t say ‘killing her’ was just as likely as disownment. The Blacks of the last generation might rarely go to church - Sirius imagined they didn’t like all the emphasis on not hurting people for fun - but by God they would never _skip_ a rite. The Safiq must owe the Travers one _hell_ of a favour.

Travers looked over the letter again, glancing around the other men.

Silas Rosier, the younger brother of the deceased Evan, made a rough gesture. "I know my aunt had a clause about religion in her contract to the Blacks. My mother said the Safiq contract her mother's sister had was similar - all children follow the family's practice kind of thing - but I never met her, so I didn't see it."

Lestrange tried to smile. "I believe that's why our family never married theirs before; we're too Catholic. Your brother is very lucky."

With the agreement of the other families in the cells with him, Travers started to smile and then gave a small whoop of joy. Everyone stared at him from around the hall, at the unusual cry to hear in Azkaban.

"Keep that letter close," Rosier said. "You're gonna forget _that_ news by tonight."

Travers tucked the letter in his robes and sat to eat with more interest than he'd shown in days. Sirius grinned. "You should share that with Bella, she'd be happy for you."

"I haven't seen her today," Travers said, a worried look on his face. "Did you check on her yet?"

"When I got up; she's still in the cell next to me." Sirius gratefully got up. "I had just been checking everyone else before I took her something to eat."

Travers hesitated, then offered Sirius his letter. "Let her see it. To help."

"She'd rather hear it from you," Sirius took his hand and squeezed it gently before he left the group to pick up a tray of food for Bella, feeling strange all over again… Well, not strange. He knew why he felt wrong.

He still couldn't adjust to being considered one of them; could hardly believe they still treated him like a _Black._ Much of it was because he was still close to Bella, but they knew he’d belonged to the Order. As much as he might have wanted the others like Grace and Nancy to realize his sentence was false… Travers was likely one of the men who had raped Marlene McKinnon before they murdered her and her family, and he’d just congratulated him on his brother’s engagement.

It hadn’t even been his _choice_ . He could be as angry with Bella and her friends as he wanted, but everyone else in Azkaban _believed_ his charges were real. He’d had three or four attempts on his life in the first six months, Order members or Aurors angry at the traitor, until his cousin had killed the next man to try. Their screaming row over her actions had been as public as he could make it, and _still_ it had gone around that no one should touch him if they didn’t want to anger the Death Eater’s inner circle.

He’d tried to ignore them, and… he’d just been alone. He’d caught himself considering suicide, and given up. He could hold lines other than trying to refuse to speak to anyone for the rest of his life. He could care about whether people died just because they were locked in a cage alongside him. That it meant he was limited in how much he could talk to the inmates who weren’t part of the war… It wasn’t because _he’d_ given up on _them_.

He comforted himself that most short Azkaban sentences were miserable, but easy to survive: they had an end in sight, a life to get back to, and family or friends waiting for them. Sirius wasn't the only prisoner from the war with no one he cared about left to write to him with news: Yaxley was one of the others. Travers having a brother to hear about, and a mother to call in favours to restore the family’s fortunes, was one of the lucky ones.

The only person Sirius cared about who still spoke to him was lying in bed, her hair grown back out to her waist after her suicide attempt three years ago, and too listless to get up today.

"Hey Bella," Sirius said. "It's lunchtime now. C'mon, you need to sit up."

His cousin made a small, irate noise at him and tried to push him away from her when he sat down within reach. Sirius took her hand and squeezed it instead.

"I'm not leaving just because you're cranky. C'mon. How'd you sleep?"

"I don't want your stupid questions today," she said. "Go away."

"Yaxley's still healing okay," Sirius began. "Travers got a letter with good news about his brother he wants to share with you. Grace and Nancy are still eating together."

"And Greengrass?" she asked.

"He was up today, too. Looked alright. I didn't have time to go see him, I…"

They both went silent abruptly. The room, already cold and damp as most of Azkaban was, went cold enough a little star of frost formed on the stone wall nearby. It felt like all noise had vanished, as a Dementor drifted into sight in the corner of his eye.

It was infrequent they came this close during the day. Sirius swallowed; he could hear static, and the memory of his mother’s strident voice, but the guard didn't stop. It carried on, and the edge of that memory faded even if it didn’t vanish. It had most likely been on its way to the dining hall, a favourite haunt as the prisoners had the most chance to recuperate there.

The most recovery, before they were drained again by the guards as they haunted the halls, stopping by their favourite cells at night. There was a reason Sirius spent each night as a dog, and it wasn’t just because that was when he was least likely to be _seen_.

Sirius exhaled loudly and snarled a little. "Goddammit."

"What?" Bella shifted to get up enough to drape herself over his lap. She was shaking, whether from cold or fear Sirius didn’t know. He pulled her closer for comfort regardless, as much for his own sake as hers.

"It was good news, Travers got." Sirius laughed darkly. "So I just forgot it. I'm gonna kill him if he loses that letter."

"We can repeat it every day for the next week," she mumbled.

"I'll suggest it next time I see him. C'mon." He offered her a plate of crackers. "Eat, you know you feel worse when you're hungry."

She ate, without much feeling, still draped over his legs. Sirius began to detangle her hair with his fingers, to have something to do. It was reassuring to touch her - to touch anyone at all, but he didn't _want_ to touch the other inmates.

Combing her hair helped more than just for touch: only Lestrange and him had seen her suicide attempt, so when they saw her cut hair there’d nearly been a riot. All her friends knew they’d been engaged - the eldest Black son to the eldest daughter - before her affair with Voldemort went public. He was pretty sure a few of them thought he’d refused to join them _because_ of it. Cutting your wife or fiancee’s hair to publicly shame her was something his own father had done.

Helping her grow it back out was one thing he hoped would convince those who’d wondered either that it wasn’t true, or at least that he had forgiven her. Between him and Bella, it was just touch and affection and some kind of memories he no longer had but could feel when he came close enough to re-enacting them.

If nothing else drove him insane in this place, it would be knowing he was near a memory and being utterly unable to think of what it was. He could feel the frustration and rage like a physical object stuck in his throat every time.

A chime sounded in the halls, as audible anywhere as it was in the dining hall: lunch was over. Bella had only eaten part of what he’d brought to her, but Sirius had to stop with her hair and take the tray back regardless. She sat up and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

“Go check on Greengrass for me,” she said. “I’ll be alright.”

“Do you want Travers to come show you the letter, while we’re out in the courtyard?” he asked.

She sighed and nodded, although she didn’t look particularly enthusiastic. “Please. He should enjoy it while he can.”

Sirius didn’t argue with her. Travers was one of the Death Eaters who had always been close to her: he was among those who had nearly killed him for cutting her hair. Besides that, sexual impulses in Azkaban were as unknown as delighted laughter. Anyone who’d still had the urge to be trouble despite it had either lost it years ago or...

She dug her hand into his hair before he stood. “You’re thinking about Marlene again,” she said. “My lion, you need to stop worrying so much. You know it was my suggestion they do it.”

Sirius turned his head away from her touch and got up. “Yeah, I know. But if I start thinking about my morals in the front of my mind, of who _deserves_ to matter to me or not, that would be exactly how I turn into someone _just like you_. Let me worry.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply; he knew she wasn’t going to try anyways. They’d been having this argument since he was thirteen.

He _hadn’t_ just let decided to let Mulciber’s cousin die. The man had joked about his daughter’s suicide her sixth year, that he was shocked she’d lasted that long when he’d raped her until he went to jail.

Sirius knew he could still cast a wandless nervekiller in Azkaban because he’d killed him for it. _That_ was where he drew his line.


End file.
